


Animals Of Circumstance

by Rollyzen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison Argent, Alive Erica Reyes, Alive Vernon Boyd, Alpha Derek, Alpha Scott McCall, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Assassin Stiles Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, Don't Ask Don't Tell, F/M, Full Moon, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Organized Crime, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Secret Identity, Spells & Enchantments, Spies & Secret Agents, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-03-06 19:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13417638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollyzen/pseuds/Rollyzen
Summary: Mieczyslaw 'Stiles' Stilinski is a top tier assassin in his family's crime syndicate. Wielding both incredible skill and magic, everyone knows Mieczyslaw is not someone to be taken lightly. An assignment in Beacon Hills leaves him with lots of questions and copious amounts of irritation. No one told him he would be having to dodge dogs for this mission. Honestly, HQ can go fuck themselves.(That 'I'm blonde. I'm skinny. I'm rich. And I'm a little bit of a bitch.' thing was stuck in my head, and I just wanted a Stiles that had some of those elements. It kind of spiraled after that. Stay tuned for a tale of a bit of a morally ambiguous and badass Stiles.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Tis I, Rolly. I have yet again started another fic instead of updating my current ones. Alas, it's one of my many flaws.  
> This idea was something I've read a few times but wanted to give a try myself. Everyone loves a badass Stiles.

"Peter Hale." He mused. "Wanted for 'trespassing the bounds of magic not allotted' to him. Hm. That's a bit vague. This whole overview is vague."

It was only a few hours until his flight departed for Beacon Hills, California, and he was _not_ excited. His family had been really busy the last few months for some supernatural reason that boggled all of them. As one of the top members of his 'crime' family's syndicate, Stiles has been worked especially hard. As a bit of a reprieve, his next assignment was a judgement. Those types of assignments were given only to the trusted, main branch family. Stiles never turned his nose up at them, especially not now when he was ready to drop from exhaustion. Or so he thought. 

"Dad!" He called from his room.

The forms were laid out on his desk by the time John made it across the house.

"What's the problem?"

He ignores the irritated inflection in his father's tone and swivels around in his chair to the papers.

After ruffling them for emphasis, he prompts,"What's up with this assignment?"

John blinks slowly before taking off his glasses,"Hale?"

Stiles nods,"Yeah. It's pretty vague compared to other judgements, and I've been given _maximum_ clearance for this. I don't like it."

"Kid, your grandpa's been workin' you to the bone. Maybe he wanted to let you have a little fun? You _are_ almost a legal adult and haven't had the luxury of normal."

He snorts,"Dad. Really? I'm a trained _killer_ who's proficient in the use of magic. Rarely was I or am I viewed as a child. You expect me to think my leash is being loosened because I've been working hard? Is this some sort of test?"

John frowns,"Stiles, your grandfather still cares about you. And.." He innocently starts to clean the lenses of his glasses with his shirt, "I may have had a small chat with him before your last assignment. Good job, by the way."

Stiles swivels distractedly,"Seriously Dad, what kind of cloak is over this job? I don't need a vacation; I'm fine. I'm not the only person working hard here." He says the last part pointedly.

A sigh comes from his dad as he pushes off the door frame and goes to sit on his son's bed. His dark circles aren't as bad as usual so that's good. The extra jobs he's picked up were more of a trade off thing for him. At least, he'd made that very clear to HQ when he accepted them. It was well known in the family business that you don't fuck with Mieczylaw or screw him over. Being a family will only help you so much. His dad wouldn't do anything to purposefully give him a sour gig. Stiles sends his dad another pointed look, but he just shrugs.

"God, alright. Do you understand how suspicious this is? Also, 'track telluric currents' is one of my objectives? This is very short notice."

"For someone who says they want to work, you sure are complaining a lot." John laughs.

He bites back a retort,"Yeah, whatever. Love you, too."

The bed creaks as his dad gets up to leave. Much to his displeasure, John musses his hair up on the way out. He sulks all the way to California.

* * *

 

Stiles hated not having proper time to prepare. If HQ had time to rent him a house, get him a bank account, and enroll him in _school_ , then they should be able to give him more than a _day_ to relax from his last mission before sending him on another one. He hadn't even unpacked yet before he got the 'urgent' assignment. However, it was a decent flight. It isn't often they put him in first class. This must be just as shitty of a job as he thought. In the US they have an agent in every few states to keep an eye on activity. Anka is the one for the west coast. For convenience in the states though, she goes by Angela. Her cover is being the owner of a coffee shop, and the rare times he gets to visit her are a treat. She's waiting to greet him at the terminal. The moment he sees her he wants to strangle her.

Stiles stomps over with a playful scowl,"You didn't tell me you cut your hair."

She smiles and bumps their shoulders together before leading them out of the airport silently. He wasn't really mad anyways; short hair suited her, too.

"So," He started,"How's the coffee business been? Nice car, by the way."

He'd always been a fan of Jeeps- good for an unconventional getaway. This one's a little battered but seems well loved.

"Thanks. I opened another shop while you've been busy kicking ass. It's here in Los Angeles."

Stiles hums,"Good location for intelligence."

"The illusion of paradise." She muses.

"The best kind." He mumbles.

It takes them a few minutes to get out of the traffic, but once they're out of town it's easier to talk.

"Anything you could tell me about this job?"

Anka's face smooths out as she focuses,"Brief me."

He falls into step with her easily,"Judgement: Peter Hale; Trespassing magical bounds without authority. Telluric current tracking. Possible threats. The file was suspiciously undetailed."

She huffs,"Those stupid _cipy_. Are they _trying_ to get their agents hurt?"

Stiles lets out a low whistles at the slip of polish and anger. Those who don't know Anka wouldn't think she had such a dirty mouth.

"What is it?"

Like the good intelligence officer she is, Anka reels herself back in and sets her eyes on the road.

"The Hales were once one of the largest United States Werewolf packs before they were unjustly slaughtered by a rogue hunter some odd years back. Most of them anyway. To this day there are three still alive, and they're from the immediate family. Peter, Derek, and Cora Hale. The female is nomadic and travels without her pack but still has ties. The current alpha is Derek Hale, her brother. Their uncle is Peter Hale, brother of the former alpha. He was catatonic in a nursing home for years after the destruction of his pack. The facts are blurred after that. Out of simple diplomatic courtesy we have not lurked around them for more information; however, I do know that the pack has been expanded. Their number isn't large, but you _know_ how werewolf packs are."

Like it knows it's being talked about, the scars across his back throb.

"I'll watch my back." He says cheekily.

"Hey." Anka growls. "You're the best we've got Stiles, and I care what happens to you. Werewolves are protective of their own."

He hates being serious with Anka, but she's not going to let it go.

"I'll do my job and stay safe, Anka."

She 'tsk's at him, but there's not as much strain in her hands anymore. Stiles turns the radio up to ease the atmosphere.

At home in Poland he lives in the countryside with his dad. They stay in a luxurious cabin that his dad commissioned before he was born. Stiles isn't much of a cabin person, so he puts up a passive aggressive protest by placing runes everywhere. Most of them are just for protection, but John thinks they're all booby trapped. He isn't completely wrong, though. The most one will do is give him a little shock. Honestly, his old man is just dramatic. So it's surprising that he didn't try to pull one over on him and make him live in a cabin during his stay. Anka pulls up outside what looks like a small family home.

"Why am I staying here? That looks like a three bedroom house."

She gives you a confused look,"Is your dad not coming with you?"

"No. He's staying in Poland for work. _God_ , is HQ trying to make this harder for me? What kind of shitty cover am I supposed to have for this? No highschooler moves abroad and lives in a three-bedroom house by himself." He runs his hands through his hair.

"I don't know what to tell you. I was just picking you up." She turns the car off and tosses him the keys. "Ask your dad. Car's yours."

She hopped out of the car and started walking. If there was one thing he didn't like about Anko it was her abrupt exits. She had the record of an experienced field agent at her late thirties. It was normal for her to be twitchy. Heck, Stiles had it, too. He watched her go until she stepped into a taxi waiting for her down the road and left. 

He was set to attend at least one full semester at Beacon Hills High School. It was a lengthy stay he was sure would grate on his nerves. He was always moving. With that, he grumpily grabbed all his bags and hauled them to the house. He was confused for a moment at the door until he found the house key on his car's key ring. The air in the house was stale with old energy. It washed over him unpleasantly as he strode in. A dull buzzing around his body made him stop. Runes were a big hobby of his, so he knew the feel of one when it was around. It made him uneasy, but he could tell it wasn't a powerful one. With his magic ready to be called on in a moments notice, he left his things and searched for the rune. Caution was always important when dealing with unfamiliar magic no matter what; it took him a few minutes longer than usual to find it. Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms, there was a very small ward in the window frame. Stiles frowned and dropped his magic. It was just a sealing rune. He unlocked the window but even after trying a few times with all his strength, it still wouldn't open. The small symbol was basic with a crest in the center. A triskele. How ambiguous.

"Thought as much."

With a huff of disappointment, he left the room. He would need to put down some runes of his own. It was risky to mess with others' when you don't know their origin, but there was time. He had a week to kill before school started for him. No pun intended.

* * *

 

Hiding from werewolves, Stiles found, would be incredibly annoying. At night was the easiest time to skulk around and find out about the telluric currents, but _of course_ it was the week of the full moon. He'd have to make himself virtually scentless to get anything done. Beacon Hills was a medium sized town. He couldn't walk everywhere to get information, and Roscoe- as he'd taken to calling his darling jeep- wasn't subtle. Bless her heart. With no other options he could logically choose, he _relaxed_. John said he could have fun, right? _Wrong_. Werewolves had amazing, adept senses. Stiles' was particularly strong, so he couldn't even play with it here. 'Maximum clearance' his ass. This Judgement assignment was just too complex for anyone else, so it was pawned off on him. The first few days led him to doing frustrated meditating and yoga. After that he was ready to go stir crazy. The house was spotless, and his dad had promised to ship all of his favorite weapons to Anka sometime soon for pickup. He tried to argue that he was virtually defenseless, but his dad laughed him off. Apparently he was _never_ defenseless. With mass amounts of irritation, he hastily googled for a jogging trail and could've cried when he found one just outside town. He was out the door in under five minutes.

The Beacon Hills Preserve was _pulsating_. Stiles has been very few places that have given him such a buzz- led alone with enough time to admire it. Out of everyone he knows he would easily consider himself the most in-tune with magic. Yet another piece of the puzzle falls into place. The jogging trail circles the preserve, and the whole afternoon passes before he knows it. He's covered in sweat and all of his muscles burn pleasantly when he finally decides to do a cool-down lap. The sun is beginning to move from its peak and toss shadows a bit more forcefully across the trail. The telluric currents out here were the strongest he's ever been around. It made it increasingly hard to keep a tap on his magic when it was humming just beneath his skin, aching to trek into the preserve. At the end of his little trip he'd only seen two other joggers who quit long before he did. Halfway through his last lap, he sensed a few presences. They were gathered at the beginning of the trail where the cars are parked. Because he was trained as a pro, this didn't make him falter or hesitate in his steps. After all, magic best senses other magic. It would be good to see what kind of werewolf pack he was dealing with.

  
Roscoe came into sight after about twenty minutes of jogging. There was a nice car parked on the other side of the lot with a gaggle of..teenagers(?)..beside it. Stiles drops into a walk as he goes to his car. Once he gets there he makes sure to stay with his back to the pack while he fishes out a hand towel and a bottle of water from the passenger side. While he's wiping down his sweaty body, he uses a small amount of his magic to scan over the others. He can tell the wolves aren't focused on him very much, but he still slightly worries about the uptick his heart just did. There are _two_ alphas. _Nobody_ said anything about there being two alphas. As casually as he can, while he's wiping down his neck, he brushes his ear and mouths _roboro_. It's his go-to Latin word when he wants to enhance one of his senses. His hearing sharpens seamlessly. It takes a second to focus, but then he's listening carefully and continuing to wipe himself down.

"-looks like a teenager, smells like a teenager-"

"No, he _doesn't_."

"Wait! How do you _smell_ like a teenager?"

"Scott, leave this conversation to the adults, please."

He can hear the pattern of nails clinking on the metal of the car. Human nails.

" _I'm_ the only adult here."

The feminine clearing of a throat reaches him,"If that's so, then you're a bit of a creep for eyeing up the _teenager_ across the lot."

" _But how can you t-_ "

"I _wasn't_."

"Derek, there is no way in hell you can stoically play this off."

"Hey, maybe he's into older guys."

" _Isaac, dude._ "

"I'm not that much older than any of you."

"I can go ask for you, then? Yes? Okay."

" _Stop_ , Erica."

Okay, so maybe he wasn't entirely correct in his assumption of him not being on their radar. Deciding it would look weird to keep toweling off, he tosses it on the car and gulps down some water. None of them are the man he's looking for. Stiles is going to fairly assume than neither of the two unnamed people are Peter Hale, considering one is female and the other is a different race and far too young. With ample disappointment, he mouths _quiescat_ to get rid of his earlier spell. He calmly sets his things inside the car before turning it on and pulling out of the lot. He does not look back to see a girl with wild blonde hair standing in the middle of the lot looking at her feet with confusion.

* * *

 

These are just google translated:

 _Cipy_ \- Polish for 'cunts'.  
_Roboro_ \- Latin for 'strengthen' or 'enhance'.  
_Quiescat_ \- Latin for 'stop'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we gooooo. Lots of progress heeeeere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this gets confusing at all (or there are mistakes). Comment if you have questions or anything. ;P

So not only would this assignment be needlessly complex but also dreadfully boring. _AP classes_ is what they placed him in. Stiles was seriously going to wreck HQ's _shit_ _up_ after this semester was over. He was here for a job, not another education. He'd already graduated high school as Mieczyslaw. Dylan O'brien, however, was part of an exchange student program. This meant he'd have to watch his manners and keep an annoying watch on his grades so as not to be kicked out. Having never experienced public high school himself, he was at a bit of a loss as how to act. Social aspects were never really his scene as far as fun goes, and he didn't normally do infiltration jobs. Consistent acting or foolery would not work for him here. He didn't have the confidence in believing he could keep up an act for seven hours straight around bratty teenagers. Now that he thought about it, patience wasn't really one of his strong points either.

The waking up early part was annoying but not hard. His routine stayed the same as any other day: wake up, do stretches, shower, have coffee. Occasionally he would play around with his book of runes and symbols if he had time. Monday proved he actually had very little. Roscoe ended up having a problem starting and cost him precious minutes needed to be on time. He wound up being about twenty minutes late to his first day at Beacon Hills High School. The man at the front desk was very forgiving of his tardiness in a way Stiles found suspicious. Thanks to his silver tongue, conversation flowed well despite the man's odd tendencies. He was relieved when a few minutes later a student came into the office.

The man, "Call me Mr. Clark", stood up and smiled, _far_ too happily in his opinion, at the young lady who entered.

"Hello, Miss Martin. Sorry to pull you out of class even after you were waiting this morning."

"It's fine. I can show him around now?"

Her voice was as politely detached as her smile- that is to say, completely.

"Yes, of course. Have a good day, Miss Martin."

She nodded politely and motioned for Stiles to exit in front of her.

He acquiesced and walked into the deserted hallway while clutching his cheap backpack straps. A muffled conversation later and he was looking into the hazy green eyes of a strawberry blonde. She led them a bit a ways from the office before turning to him.

"Don't mind the creepy receptionist. I think he's hit on at least half the student body. I'm Lydia Martin, a top student and your chosen guide for the time being. I'll answer any questions you have."

Stiles had to give her props. Lydia was a good actor. If he wasn't trained in knowing people's tells he wouldn't have noticed the subtle anxious twitching of her fingers.  
  
He inclined his head,"Dylan O'brien. Sorry about being late. Car trouble."

She shrugs and continues walking,"No problem. First class was study hall for me. I'll show you where your classes are if you have your schedule."

She ends up being reasonably pleasant company for the majority of the morning. Stiles can't help but hate how suspicious he is of everything and not be able to completely enjoy this stranger's company. It took him a few minutes to figure out her banshee status, mostly due to their subtle, self-preservative nature. It was surprising for him to realize so casually. None of the wolf packs Stiles had been around had been very open to having other supernaturals in their territory. Given that she was probably underage, she might have been an exception to pack policy. Or maybe they didn't know. He'd keep the information to himself. She was supposed to accompany Stiles to lunch, but he insisted he didn't eat. Lydia smiled coolly and looped her arm through his with insistence as she herded him to the cafeteria anyways. It wasn't a tight grip, easily broken, but it wasn't worth the effort. He perked up as he thought of the teenage werewolves outside the preserve a few days ago. Banshees were good sensors of active magic, so he wouldn't be able to feel them out with her so close to him. It would have to wait until later. If he could touch one of them then he could tell for sure without using magic. Werewolves, he thought, only had their noses and sense of family going for them. Strong packs of any kind of magic had a certain bond between them to trained sensory eyes of an occultist, shaman, druid, etc. The cafeteria was already settling down with kids and their respective lunches. Lydia stalked across the lunch room with more authority than he thought was necessary. He hung a bit limply in her hold but followed without complaint. Finally they stood at the end of a table filled with students that looked up at them with curiosity. The apprehension of the students was subdued but still there none the less.

It makes Stiles ponder a bit. What kind of trauma leaves such lasting effects? Stiles examines the faces of the people at the table while Lydia starts talking.

"Guys, this is Dylan O'brien, the exchange student from Poland. He's very excited to make new friends. Play nice."

She practically melts into a seat at the table and motions for him as well.

"Yeah, buzzing. Hi."

A quick round of introductions went off, and he had to restrain himself from narrowing his eyes. It couldn't be a coincidence that multiple people at this table had the same names of the kids in the parking lot. He didn't even need magic. One of them had to one of the alphas he sensed. Check: Locate pack members- complete. However, the conversation- that he's almost positive was flowing easily moments before they came over- was stilted while Stiles just sat with his hands in his lap.

"So.. Poland?"

Stiles turned his head to the boy looking at him with pretty blue puppy-dog eyes. Artfully done curls drape over one of them while he looks to him imploringly. Stiles resists licking his lips and purring something inappropriate. He would devour this pup under different circumstances.

"Yes. Located in Europe."

A girl with curly blonde hair sitting across from him, Erica, pouts and then steamrolls over Isaac's next words.

"You don't have an accent."

Stiles nods,"Correct." He doesn't know who the stupid fucks at HQ are at the moment, but when he finds out he's going to hang them by their feet at the top of the Palace Of

Culture and Science. It was a bit of a travel from their base, but he'd find a way to keep all of them 'entertained'. Possibly with new enchanted blades.

She pouts harder," _Why?_ "

He shrugs,"Trained myself out of it." Not a lie. Good. "Polish accents aren't sexy anyways- if that's why you're disappointed." Also not a lie. Sad.

The flirty pout turned into a sharkish grin in a matter of seconds.

"Good god, don't get her started."

"I'll have you know," She said easily. "- that there are many accents that are underappreciated. It's just the execution that needs work. I mean, Boyd can't role-play to save his life, but I still love him. Kinks can't be everything."

"Riiight." Stiles said placidly. Stiles hasn't seen too many alphas in his time, but this time could be the exception.

Scott, the most dog-like of all of them, looked desperate for a subject change as he asked him a question.

"Do you speak Polish?"

"Fluently?" Lydia interjects.

Stiles nods.

"Say something spicy." Erica adds with a glint in her eye.

Restraining an eye roll, he thinks for a moment.

" _Nie wywołuj wilka z lasu._ "

"What does that mean?"

Stiles holds back a smile,"'Don't call a wolf from the forest.'"

He senses a few people ceasing up. Though, they do a good job of trying to hide it.

"Is that one of your sayings..?"

"It means 'don't tempt fate'. You guys alright? Too 'spicy' for you?"

Jackson scoffs to remove the tension,"That was pretty lame.

With a swerve of his head he says," _Twoje nieszczęście przynosi mi radość._ "

" _That_ was hot. What did you say?" Erica smiles excitedly.

Internally, Stiles preens. He loved insulting people in languages they didn't understand. Although it did take out some of the fun a response would warrant.

He leaned forward on one hand attractively as he looked at Jackson,"I said he has beautiful eyes."

Whether or not they were paying attention to his heartbeat or not for the lie, it was funny to watch him cling to Lydia's waist when Stiles knew he wanted to growl. The lunch bell rang soon after that. He thanked Lydia for showing him around and promptly left. He would not further involve himself with the pack of werewolves and its banshee. He learned his lesson last time about what happens when you step too closely to a pack uninvited. He was more of a cat person anyways.

* * *

 

Regular teenage life was tedious. He couldn't spar with anyone, and he couldn't practice his magic. His top two favorite things were not an option for him in Beacon Hills. He had _book_ _reading_ to fill his time. They weren't even the interesting stuff. Curses. Now those were interesting. He successfully avoided the wolves whenever they were around and warded off other socialites, as well. At a safe distance, he was able to determine that _Scott_ was one of the alphas. A bitten wolf and a _true_ alpha. In private he took a moment to feel surprised about it. Boyd seemed more suited to it, in his opinion. However, he was gargantuanly frustrated. It was Friday evening at the end of his first month of _school_ , and he was hardly closer to finding Peter Hale than when he got there. It seemed he would _have_ to resort to magic to find the werewolf. He vibrated at the opportunity.

It was nearly three in the morning when he left his house. He was dressed in one of his mission outfits: an all black ensemble consisting of a light, hooded, long-sleeved coat that ended mid-thigh, a blank t-shirt, a mask that went up over his nose, jeans, Timberlands (an indulgence), and gloves with just the tips of the fingers cut off. He had to admit that just wearing the outfit was fun. The clothing put him in the proper mood for doing assignments. He had a small vial of mountain ash tucked in one of his pockets and a map of Beacon Hills in hand as he entered the woods. It had rained recently, so the earth shifted slightly underfoot. The tracks barely gave him any concern. With this decision, he would end up being found out regardless. A good distance away from his house, he set down the map in small amount of cleared space. Stiles lit a good sized fire in his hand and crouched over the map. He couldn't be burned by his own fire, but the flames tickled when they touched his face. The vial of mountain ash was cold in his hand while he dumped some on the paper. As soon as it was replaced in his coat, he retrieved a small dagger- his favorite for spells and rituals. After pulling up the sleeve of his coat, he lightly sliced into the side of his wrist. Drops of blood dripped innocently onto the paper, into the mountain ash, while he silently spoke the words of his searching spell and focused on Peter Hale and the facts he knew about him.

The ash and blood frenzied around on the map. Stiles pursed his lips in irritation.

"That's not cute." He grumbled.

It was an amateur security, albeit a paranoid one. He quickly dispelled it and watched as the mixed liquid found its way home. On the other side of town. Yes, baby, we have a location. The captain will take it from here. A buzzing started in his hands, and he frowned. The spell on the paper was soon replaced with different recipients. They were closing in. Stiles scorched the paper, while he ran back to his house.

A plan. Stiles always had a plan. Everything was good. Immediately after passing over the threshold of his home, his wards pressed on him reassuringly. With a calm demeanor, he dropped the suppression spells he's had going on him for a good month. It was a decent weight lifted from his shoulders and no doubt a beacon to the werewolves if they brought their banshee. One didn't simply _not_ notice Stiles- no matter how nonchalant he seemed. The reason he didn't make a habit of taking long assignments was because of how it messed with his control. Long-term suppression made him antsy and, in turn, unbalanced his magic levels. A month wasn't bad, though. Wards on the edge of the perimeter drew his attention and warned him of the trespassers traversing onto his property. Stiles nodded his head to himself and stood in wait at the foot of his stairs. There was a clamoring outside his door before it was suddenly knocked completely down in a small sprinkle of splinters. He straightened his posture as he regarded the homewrecker.

"That's quite a knock you have."

A broad-chested man with a low, hairless brow and red eyes stood menacingly in his doorway. A lesser agent would have quailed at the sight, probably those HQ rats. Stiles, however, rolled his eyes at the frivolous dominance display. A growl far too animalistic came from the man and vibrated him to his bones. Distantly, he thought of the face behind the wolf. Hot bod= hot face, right?

"What are you and what are you doing here?"

There was a slight lisp in his words as he spoke around wickedly sharp teeth that reminded the assassin of some of his favorite bone daggers.

Stiles tsks at his floor distastefully,"You don't bring cookies. You don't even say 'hello' first, and then you break my door. What kind of neighbor are you?"

Stiles twined his wards tightly and zeroed in on the betas' position. With hands raised in mild surrender, he steps forward towards the alpha. What a bad decision that was. Apparently too sudden a movement, the alpha struck with violence. One second Stiles was ready to reasonably talk out his qualms and then there are claws in his gut and he's being tossed through the air. Something in the staircase might have cracked do to the force of his body colliding with it. A breath hisses through his teeth that he can't stop. The pain and surprise stalls him for a moment before he slips completely into professional mode and prepares himself. The eyebrow-less alpha is upon him, ready to pin him, but Stiles is ready for it. Werewolves are predictable by default if someone know what to look for.

" _Concitatus_." He spat.

The dark headed wolf flew all the way back down to his front door with far more ferocity than he had at the stairs. A vindictive pleasure bloomed briefly in his chest. He cautiously made his way to the bottom of the stairs as the other dazedly got to his feet. He muttered in irritation the whole time: "Dogs are always using their bodies instead of their fucking _brains_."

"Now," Stiles started as he tried to mentally catalog his injuries,"Would you like to talk or fight? And, just to be _fair_ , I assure you that I'll win."

He growls, and his eyes get impossibly more red with the added effect of a glare.

The wards on the sides of the house flare.

Stiles clears his throat and holds up one hand elegantly while flames dance between his fingers,"If your mutts get one foot closer to my house I will _burn them alive. **Back** **up**._ I don't take kindly to being boxed in."

His words are met with a flinch. He snarls something under his breath and the wards ease their warning as the betas listen. Stiles waits a few seconds for the werewolf to say anything.

Stiles arches an eyebrow and frowns behind his mask,"Not going to speak? You don't want to _guess_ why I'm here?"

"Nemeton."

He almost does a double take, not actually thinking he'd get a response.

"No." Stiles says in aloof confusion. Who the fuck was Nemeton?

"Lydia."

"I'm not here for your banshee."

"Scott."

"..nor your true alpha."

"Ja-"

He huffs and yanks down his mask,"Who here actually deserves to have someone to after them?!"

"Well," Stiles amends,"Not _here_. Not that I can tell."

Part of the alpha's beta shift recedes,"Peter."

"Yes!" Stiles claps lightly so as not to irritate his injuries.

The man is suddenly snarling at _him_.

" _Why?_ "

The seventeen year old sighs and rubs at the side of his face,"Gods. He's _your_ uncle. Shouldn't _you_ know? I'm just doing my job."

"Why. Are. You. Here."

"To spare or obliterate your uncle's life." He blinks owlishly.

The five blips in his field of protection start to hover a bit closer, and he snaps at them.

" _ **One foot closer**._ "

After that sentence they scatter, and a few seconds later they are completely off his property. He scrunches his brows as he looks to the doorway. The alpha's face is a brick wall as he turns tail and leaves. Stiles is left to gape openly at the scene.

"Are you _fucking_ serious?"

* * *

 

- _Twoje nieszczęście przynosi mi radość._ (Stiles to Jackson)- Polish- Your misfortune brings me joy.

- _Concitatus_.- Latin- ..urge, motive, stimulant, stimulus, push, inducement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo~ Kudos, comment, subscribe for update notifications.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup, everyone. Chew on this chapter and tell me if it tastes good. <\- Was that weird? Probably.

Just because he has a plan doesn't mean all the _outcomes_ were planned out. _Seriously_. What. The Fuck. Who just leaves? Whatever. Stiles can _begrudgingly_ appreciate a strategic retreat, but he doubts they did it for the right reasons. Needless to say Stiles is pretty miffed for the rest of his weekend. Now without the added weight of restraint, he can relax himself freely. First, he strengthens his wards to be outwardly intimidating. There's no need for subtlety now. Then, he checks his target's location a few times just to be sure his pack wasn't getting him out of town. What Stiles found interesting was that he actually did move but only to the other side of town. In his bedroom, both locations were marked on a separate map that he would continue to mull over before bed. The thing to think about was always time, _when_. Strategy was an art capable of many genres but easily unraveled when executed without caution. Plans, plans, plans. He still had time.

* * *

 **Annoying**. So. Damn. Annoying.

Werewolves and their little territorial hissy fits were getting on his nerves. Although he would never admit it aloud, it was actually a bit refreshing. Werewolves made him jumpy, and Stiles' feathers usually stayed unruffled at the worst of times. The following week of school was a true test to his control. His back ached something fierce from being smashed against the stairs, and while he could heal a pretty quickly compared to normal humans, he had nothing on werewolf vitality. Werewolf vitality that apparently thought it was it's fucking job to be a thorn in his side. The puppies had figured out he came to school armed and reported him anonymously to the school. Stiles was _pissed_ about that. He had a reputation to uphold as his cover, and he didn't even do anything to warrant something so petty as _tattling_. Also, _magic_. He got out of it no problem with a quick cloaking charm. It thoroughly insulted him but was remedied by the sheepish expression on the principle's face afterwards- when they found nothing. The following rumors were nothing short of a nuisance. It didn't help that some people found out he was hurt and spread it around. The claw marks on his stomach would probably scar.

 _Everyone_ back home would be catching hell for this. The stress of AP classes were finally beginning to settle on him, too. It took an alarming amount of control not to threaten his snotty teachers with the hidden blade strapped to his ankle when their condescending tone was turned on him. Mr. Harris was one of the worst. The way he oozed entitlement rubbed Stiles the wrong way, and it seemed Mr. Harris took an immediate dislike to him as well, oddly enough; Stiles considered himself a pretty nice person when he was acting. It was after he'd had to stay after school for "a little chat", that was more thinly veiled insults, that things picked up again with the local supernaturals. A minute or two after pulling out of the school parking lot, he noticed he was being followed. But not by a car.

Immediately, he was pulling off the side of the road and getting out. Stiles prided himself on his eyes and sensory skills when it came to magic, despite being a little scatter brained. Though, the trail wasn't difficult to follow coming from an alpha that wasn't trying to hide itself. This, Stiles thought, could be a good thing. While it didn't reek of a trap, he was still suspicious of being lead on. The alpha of the area wants to talk, presumably. That's good, no more dancing around each other.

Or Stiles had thought.

He frowned when he came upon an empty field. Alpha Hale stood on the other side, watching Stiles come closer without moving a muscle. Stiles wondered about their perception of him. Exactly how much of a threat was he considered?

"You know," Stiles said, flipping out his phone,"If you wanted to talk, instead of following me, you could've just asked? Do you know how bad you are at tailing?"

The conspicuously dressed werewolf took one step closer.

"Really, Alpha Hale? I beg you not to treat me so lightly."

Due to the large distance, Stiles can _barely_ make out the small smirk on his face. A few trees around the entirety of the clearing rustle. He spins in a slow circle to see that the betas have surrounded him. Without him knowing. Something ugly turns in his stomach, and the scars on his back tingle in response.

He lets out a low whistle,"Congratulations, I'm shocked- albeit flattered at the attention."

A nasty snarl makes the hair on his arms raise.

"However," He turns his phone over in his hands again before pocketing it. "You continue to make me your enemy by these pointless altercations and threats."

His good mood is evaporating faster than a rain shower in Florida. The wolves stay silent except for the low rumbling of a few growls.

"I've already told you what my business here is- only to have you disregard it. And _this_ -"

Stiles splays his hands out, and the hidden symbol on the ground beneath him glows pink. 

"-is just insulting. Planning to trap me in a weak-ass _snare_? For what? To force information out of me? _Ask me yourselves, you **dogs**_."

A snarl of his own makes it to his face. He closes his hand in a fist, and the symbol shatters. An inhuman wail pierces the air. Everyone immediately drops to the ground clutching their ears.

" _Surdus_."

The world goes silent. Stiles looks around to the wolves trying to claws their ears off and rolls his eyes. A banshee's scream could impair all who could listen. With a regretful tug, he puts the werewolves to sleep. It wouldn't last long, and it depleted his magic more than he'd like. Messing with other's consciousness was hard work. He can feel the pulses of the scream slide over him, but it's harmless now. He races to the trees to find the strawberry-blonde writhing on the ground. Lydia has tears running down her face, and she's destroyed the foliage around her. Parts of the ground have been upturned and -if the marks in the earth are any indication- are packed under her fingernails. The very leaves on the trees seem to quiver from the frequency of her voice. Stiles has a nagging feeling in the back of his brain that he knows what's happened and drops to his knees beside her. The ground squelches under his weight, and Lydia shrinks away from his presence. He has to forcefully restrain her, so he can focus. The physical contact grounds and pacifies her as he tries to work. He's so focused on her, actually, that he doesn't know the wolves are searching for their distressed pack mate until he's being yanked away from her and thrown against a tree. Claws tear down his chest, and he hisses. Lydia starts whimpering, her chest shuddering, and Stiles knows it's only a matter of time before she's screaming again. He still can't hear anything, so whatever the teenaged alpha with claws at his throat is saying goes right over his head. Stiles see's Lydia's boyfriend go to touch her and snaps at him.

" **Don't touch her**."

It's weird talking without hearing himself. Scott's claws dig into his neck slightly.

" _Quiescat_."

His hearing returns in a disorienting snap. Claws dig dangerously further into his neck and the growl brings Stiles back to clarity faster. An angry clarity.

Quick as a whip, flames encompass his body and burn Scott's hands. They're only minor burns and singed clothes but he takes brief pleasure in the missing eyebrow he's now sporting before bringing his attention where it's needed. Jackson is hovering anxiously around Lydia, debating whether or not he should actually listen to him. Stiles puts a barrier around Lydia's body because she's about to scream again and turns to the tree he accidentally caught on fire. He extinguishes his bodily flames. A hand smoothed over the bark wipes away the irritation and spreads to smother the gathering fire. The werewolves, if possible, look even more on guard, circled protectively around Lydia. Stiles doesn't like this defensive stance of werewolves all staring at him in their beta shift. It's a hauntingly familiar picture.

"Move, please."

" _What did you do?_ "

Stiles feel his fiery temper rear its head.

"Excuse me?" He asks indignantly.

Jackson growls and pushes up beside Derek,"She was fine until you did something to the circle she made. _You_ did it."

Stiles swallows the poisonous words he wants to spew and presses against his chest wounds to rein himself in.

"Would all of you kindly and voluntarily move, so I can help fix the problem that stemmed from all of your ignorance? If you choose not to, I will bring all of you to the brink of death so you can't interrupt. Your choice."

Lydia is screaming inside the barrier already.

"Make it fast."

They all start growling again.

"Okay."

The wolfish noises are cut off into adolescent surprise as the head alpha steps aside. The betas and Scott are wide-eyed as they look from Lydia to Derek to him.

Stiles hisses," _Move_. _It_. _Or_. _Lose_. _It_."

He pushes through the werewolves and tells them to cover their stupidly sensitive ears. It only takes about thirty seconds to calm her screams this time. He's set her between his legs with her back to his chest and his hands wrapped around her forearms.

"Can I..?"

Stiles knows somebody is trying to talk to him, but there's blood running from and clotted in his ears from the damage of the close-range screams.

"I'm pretty deaf right now, so speak up."

"Is it okay to touch her?"

Scott jumps in and looks totally fine with everything- not even repentant about tearing up his chest. Stiles opens his eyes and sees a few of the betas recoil.

"No. Your spark will rub off on hers and damage it because _you don't know what you're doing_." Stiles can't help but bite out.

He adds,"Over the clothes is fine."

Erica sits at Lydia's feet, unbothered by him,"But you're touching her right now."

" _I_ happen to know what I'm doing."

Isaac sits at Stiles' side, and he tries not to lean to far away from him to where it's obvious he's uncomfortable.

"Your _eyes_ , dude."

Stiles furrows his brows as he manipulates Lydia's spark.

"Yes, I have them. Wonderful observation skills, Adonis. May I get back to work?"

Stiles blocked out the wolves- which _why would you do that, Stiles_ \- and repaired Lydia's stripped and splintered spark. She would depend on the little pieces of his own he inserted to hold it together while it healed. It was only temporary. She came back to herself and out of the coma-like state she'd been in when he was half-way finished. Her freak-out had upset the wolves, and then Stiles had to calm _all_ of them back down again. Derek had then sat at his back to watch him. The uncomfortable tension in his body rose but didn't seem to bother the other supernaturals. Stiles was almost done setting her spark back into place when someone touched his neck. He tensed up but kept his eyes closed.

"Keep your hands to yourself or be prepared to lose them."

The pressure stayed there and then the pain was being leeched from his body.

" **No**." Stiles lamented as he pulled away.

He stared hard at an abashed looking Erica before finishing up with Lydia. The sun was beginning to set by the time he was finished and had ignored several questions of when he'd be done. He'd let go of Lydia slowly so she could get her bearings and helped her as she promptly vomited in the grass beside them. Her pack members moved to help but stopped at a hand from Stiles. He held her hair and pat her back as she threw up everything in her stomach. After it was over, she looked pale and sickly, but that was normal. She was finally in the right mind to ask her questions.

"What did you do to make it stop?"

Stiles looks to the werewolves and then erects a barrier around him and Lydia. Everyone is rightfully surprised.

Stiles ignored the many aching spots on his body as he crossed his legs and regarded the banshee. She's pretty forthcoming with information at the moment. She tells him that everything she knows comes from the town vet. Who, she elaborates after Stiles gives her a judgey look, also used to be the original Hale pack's druid emissary. However, Deaton is apparently a needlessly cryptic asshole that Stiles will be having a chat with because he could have gotten people _killed_. A banshee scream is not a joke. He can tell she's trying her hardest to pry information from him in return but it's a fruitless effort. Her eyes keep tracking over his blood-stained clothes as if to memorize them. The questions stay civil, and he tells her to _not_ tie her life force to any magic she does. Stiles can see how frustrated she is because she doesn't understand what she did wrong. He finally just tells her to stay away from it for the time being, and he would get the emissary into shape for her.

As soon as he let's the barrier down, wolves descend on her. Just like he'd told her to do, she explains she can't have an extended amount of contact with anything that has another spark. Stiles pulls himself up and bites back every pained noise that threatens to slip from his throat. A calloused hand is held out in front of him. After a second of hesitation, he grabs it and lets himself be pulled up. Stiles knows logically that not all werewolves were drop-dead gorgeous. He'd met wolves that made his skin crawl; so, there was no reason to think of werewolves as innately attractive. But, _damn_. He was right about the man behind the wolf. A hot bod, in fact, does equal a hot face. Unfortunately, said man has noticed that Stiles has yet to let go of his hand. A shame.

Stiles gracefully retracts his hand,"Thank you." Stiles clears his throat. "Also, fuck you guys."

He peels the half-dry and half-shredded shirt off his body and burns it in his hand. With a false smile directed at Scott, he walks away. He trembles from the blood loss but makes it to his car without incident. The pink pullover in his backseat goes on easy over the wounds, and he silently fumes on the drive back to the house. He had yet _again_ gotten injured because he tried to act civilly. Once he'd pulled into his driveway, he didn't want to get out of the car. The steering wheel was begging to be bashed or hit or _anything_ to get out his frustration. His magic not being at full power also dampened his mood. A knock on his window made him jump.

He cranked down his window.

A pale girl with a squared jaw and brown hair looked at him with drawn brows,"Are you alright?"

"Um, yes?"

Stiles gingerly got out of the car.

"Is there a problem?"

She looks taken aback,"Sorry, I was across the street and you've been in your car for thirty minutes straight. I just wanted to see if you were okay..?"

"Do you live across the street?"

Stiles resisted narrowing his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm Allison. We go to school together?"

Stiles knew for a fact that she didn't live there. The people who inhabited that house were an elderly couple with close to zero living relatives. If anything, Stiles does his homework. Something was up.

"I don't think I've seen you around. We'll have to get together some time and get to know each other."

Was that weird? Teenagers said stuff like that, right? It's how they made friends.

Her eyebrows raised slightly, and she laughed,"Yeah, sure. Sooner than you may think." She continued to chuckle.

He didn't think he'd made a faux pas large enough to warrant the giggles. He opened his mouth to, hopefully, end the conversation but a firm hand on the back of his neck stopped him. The world spun as his head was smashed into the side of his jeep. The grip on his neck released, and he crumpled to the ground. His vision swam and hearing blanked as he stared up at the sky for a few seconds. He looked over in time to see the girl's boot connect with his temple, and he was out like a light.

* * *

 

- _Surdus_ \- Latin- ..deaf, mute, indifferent, insensible, insusceptible, noiseless  
- _Quiescat_ \- Latin- 'Stop'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you guys feel about the foreign language stuff? And the chapter, too, I guess.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you sure about him? He wasn't as malicious as you'd described."

The older man rolls his eyes,"Yes, _now_ , when he has his act up. Agents like him will snap in a second. It's how they're trained."

Allison crosses her arms as she watches him pick up the unconscious boy. Peter had assured her that no one was around to witness the kidnapping.

"I still don't get why you couldn't get help from your pack."

Peter hefts the body over his shoulder and starts walking towards his car,"They're a bunch of softies that will get manipulated too easily. ' _I never wanted this life. I'm a misunderstood assassin._ ' They'd cave like a house of cards. You and I both have enough screws loose to be cautious."

"Just get him out of here. I don't want my dad getting twitchy over this. And _don't_ kill him, Peter. Beacon Hills doesn't need another dead body."

He smiles tightly and tosses Stiles into the backseat none too gently. She stares pointedly at him before stalking off.

* * *

 

His entire body pulses with pain, and moving fills him with nausea. The air is chilled, and the lights are dim when he cracks an eye open. This only means trouble.

"Waking up?"

The groan that's pulled from him is uninhibited and strained. Thick chains pinch his exposed skin and wrap around his arms and legs. The links are spread out on the ground into a purposeful pentacle. An even heavier chain is looped loosely around his neck, completing the bind. Stiles scowls at the fixed metal. If he had had doubts about the 'charges' on this man before, they would be whisked away by now. His brows knit in frustration. If he hadn't  _wasted_  so much magic and energy on Lydia then he could bust the bind with his power alone.

"Pretty ordinary without your magic, aren't you? It's really not that complicated to redirect, but you know how that goes. You're quite.. _crafty_."

A man stands on the far side of the room, covered by the dark. Stiles keeps his breathing even and tries to clear the pounding in his head. The raging werewolves outside do not make it an easy task.

"Dylan, we didn't know!"

"We tried to help!"

"Hang in there, and we'll get you out!"

"Don't do something  _stupid_ , Peter."

Stiles looks around to see the wolves blocked at multiple entrances by mountain ash. He can't help but think how dumb this is. Stiles is no mere damsel, and cheap words won't 'save' him.

The chains rattle as he moves to sit more comfortably. He refuses to bow his head under the added weight of metal.

"Finally, someone who isn't interested in party games." Stiles says with a grin, ignoring the raspiness of his voice.

The man stepped out of the shadows with an up-ticked side of the mouth and a conspicuous binder in hand.

"Please don't compare me to these youngsters. It doesn't do _any_ of us justice."

"Peter Hale." Stiles commanded, dropping the facade."I assume you've been told why I'm here, and you are doing this to avoid the consequences. I am formally giving you the option to rescind this aggression and take judgement willingly."

Peter flips open the binder and nods, ignoring him.

"'April 17, 2003'."

It was like someone had run ice down his spine. Only years of training keep him from reacting, but werewolves were a lot harder to fool.

"'A school bus in the Czech Republic bursts into flames, killing all inside of it.' Sounds like a nasty bit of business, wouldn't you agree? I'm not much of a moral compass myself but children? Heartless people in the world, really."

"Th-"

"Shh. Wait. I like this one. 'May 3, 2003: an eight year old boy was found strangled in tree vines near a neighborhood playground after being reported missing by his grandmother seven hours earlier.' Poor thing. That was apparently all the family the woman had.  _Her_ body was found a few days after the funeral. Overdose."

Stiles could feel the static of panic slide down his body and churn in his stomach. _Nobody_ knew that information outside the syndicate. Nobody could _get_ that information. There was a  _rat_.

"You c-"

"But I concede. You clearly aren't aware of your own situation- and what a shame _that_ is. A young spark like yourself could turn dark with all that grief bubbling under your skin. Well, if all that death makes you feel anything. I wasn't the first to think that, either, apparently."

"Peter, what are you doing." Derek growls from the entrance directly behind his uncle.  His chest rises slightly faster than normal, and Stiles is once again mesmerized by the hairless brow in his beta shift.

The older man shrugs and snaps the binder shut, electing to ignore his nephew. He struts across the warehouse like there aren't a surplus of angry supernaturals wanting to tear into him. His cockiness was irritating. Stiles would only be trapped for a limited amount of time. When he got free, he would ravage Peter's mind with relish and be done with this job. Things were becoming too complicated.

Peter meandered around until he was at the head of the pentacle,"Sorry for the small talk. Now, I'd really like to see your face when I break _the news_ to you."

Stiles felt his hackles rise as his hands twitched for a weapon that wasn't there.

"How strong is your faith in your 'family', _Mieczylaw_?"

The other wolves murmured in confusion, and Stiles narrowed his eyes. Peter preens with the notion of knowing something the others don't. His _real fucking name._

"Bit of a workout for your mouth, isn't it? _Mieczylaw_. But I'm sure you're used to that. Have to do a lot of unpleasant things in your line of work, I'm sure. Is th-"

"For someone who apologized for the small talk," Stiles interrupts,"You don't seem very repentant about continuing it."

Peter looks at him sharply. In a quick draw, there's a gun in his hand. Stiles doesn't have time to say anything before a bullet rips through the side of his leg with a deafening bang.

A shock wave of adrenaline goes through his body, and his muscles tense so tightly it hurts. A muscle in his jaw jumps from the clenching, and the wolves are yelling and snarling. _It's weird_. Having werewolves on his side is a first- an uncomfortable first. Peter turns the gun over in his hands with a bored expression, and it's _aggravating_. Werewolves don't use _guns_. Something about him just pisses Stiles off, and a lot of it probably has to do with the knot on his head that's been pulsing intermittently. The few times someone has gotten the jump on him, they've ended up regretting it immensely.

"Anyway, where were we?"

"You were about to put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger?" Stiles all but growls through the pain.

Peter ignores him,"We were chatting about your wonderful criminal family. Not that bad, apparently. They were so sweet as to let me know beforehand about your arrival, and they gave me these _riveting_ files about your career. Quite accomplished for your age, _young_ _man_."

He keeps talking in that condescending tone, but Stiles can't listen anymore. The words sting sharply in his chest. It feels as if he's been slapped.. It would make sense.

It would **all** make sense.

This job had reeked of sketchiness. It hadn't even crossed his mind that his people would stab him in the back. But not his dad. Stiles knew that his dad wouldn't have done this to him. He _wouldn't_ , Stiles thought aggressively. His grandfather's name was all over this. Of course it was. The old bastard was never that bright anyways; his grandma had always been the brains of the operation. It was easily predicted that they would be weaker once their matron had kicked the bucket. This was the kind of witless paranoia that really _did_ bring down "criminals".

Gods, this sucked.

Peter frowned,"Not even your reactions are fun. Disciplined people have no personality anymore, I swear. I might as well kill you now- before you come up with some clever plan."

Stiles scoffed as he returned to the _conversation_ ,"Oh, is that right? What makes you think I don't already have one?"

He watches as the older man loses some of his bravado, and his ears flick back. Stiles has a moment to feel the taste of victory, that his plan has worked, before the gun goes off again. This time the bullet punctures his chest. The wolves get as close to howling as they can without actually doing it, and Stiles lasts about a minute. Then, he's full-body rolling with laughter. He's probably losing too much blood to be moving so much, but it doesn't stop. The chain around his neck pinches harshly at him as he twists with mirth.

Another shot goes into his leg. This time it hits a vital spot. A main vessel. His laughter is wet.

A loud crash draws his attention, and he sees Peter climbing out of busted crates.

Stiles smiles larger despite himself. Lydia, in all her confused glory, was now stood sternly in front of a broken line of mountain ash. Her hands glowed with the color of his own spark. The magic cushions he'd planted in her spark were vibrating but not hindered by the pentacle. However, they were not easily reached for; it was a good thing Derek's uncle liked the sound of his own voice. Lydia resisted pretty harshly against his pull, so it could have gotten messy..er if she had gotten here any later. Her eyes are fogged over in white from his control, and beads of sweat dot her brow and hairline. Her body is clearly being exerted beyond its capabilities, as the strain is stitched into every line of her body. However, at the moment, Stiles is more concerned about himself. The wolves flood into the warehouse behind her. Erica, the tenacious blonde, races over and tries to break the chains. She struggles for a minute before the metal gives with a dull _chink_.

Awareness splashes over him like lukewarm water. Stiles realizes he's very close to blacking out. His vision swims, and he clutches at his leg. Pain doesn't immediately strike him, so he knows it's serious. Blood wells between his fingers, and he stares at it. He breaks the chain around his neck with a thought and looks around at the wolves. Scott's holding Lydia, who passed out the second Stiles dropped his control. She'll _probably_ be fine. Derek is all up in Peter's face, both of their beta shifts out. And _yikes_. Stiles could've gone the rest of his life without seeing Peter's creepy wolf face. With blue eyes. He files that away.

He drops forward as his mind blanks out. His head conks against the floor and shocks some awareness into him. Stiles realizes the attention has suddenly shifted to him and bristles. Using the blood on his hand he draws a simple symbol on himself to slow down his bodily functions so he doesn't bleed out too fast. With a twisted expression of anger, he focuses on Peter. The man has enough sense to try and get out of his sight and make a run for it.

" _Funem de deo_." He rasps.

His body grows more sluggish as the seal takes hold. He only has a moment to see the bindings come to life and search Peter out before his vision dims and he slips under the pull.

* * *

 

_It's fucking hot._

Stiles is distinctly not a nice person right after he wakes up. Even if he's comfortable. And on a really nice couch.

What.

"Erica, _shut_ _up_. You're gonna wake him up."

"Should you really be the one talking about inconveniencing him when you're part of the reason he's lying there in the first place? The _fuck_ is wrong with you, Allison? I hope he zaps you into another fucking universe. Where do you get off on trying to police this area without Derek's input?"

Stiles dazedly thinks that he would be inclined to agree with that first part.

He blinks his eyes open to a homey living room with pretty little accent lamps turned on low. Immediately, he wishes he was still asleep. He's in the same clothes as when he lost consciousness. The mass amounts of dried blood are giving off an unpleasant but familiar odor. The bone-deep ache of magic exhaustion wasn't too nice, either. It was not a feeling he commonly got, leaving him feeling vulnerable. His eyes lit on a few shadows thrown across the floor that could lead nowhere but the kitchen. A subtle movement in his peripherals caught his attention, and he was leaping out of the blankets. His eyes tear up at the pain that shoots through his leg and chest, but it otherwise doesn't show.

There's a clattering in the kitchen that pushes him to pounce. Peter has the common sense to try and evade him. Stiles thinks even a born wolf like Derek would be proud of the snarl he lets out as he throws himself bodily at the other man. Peter moves out of the way, and he ends up only snagging half of the man before he gets walloped in the side of the head, claws catching him. It jars him enough to let the snake slide away to try and get to safety.

An unsettling feeling comes over him as a small trickle of blood eases down his neck. Blindingly hot rage shoots down his limbs like lightning. His eyes cloud over with a glowing white that screams just how off he truly is from ordinary. Stiles hates this. _Hates_ not being in control and caught off guard. It's been so long since he's snapped on anyone, and the friction under his skin is a glaring reminder that he still can. Few, if any, know exactly what he is. Stiles wants it to stay that way, but there's a constant allure surrounding the thought of exposure; he's always had a bit of a flare for the dramatic. _Fear is a tool_ , he thinks to himself constantly, whether it be of the unknown or something very very specific. The bones in his body are tingling with anticipation, waiting for power to be channeled through them.

This wolf has pushed him to his wits end. The way this whole job has gone is a disgrace to his record- to his _career_. A career that no longer matters because he's been deemed a threat by the people he would protect foremost.

Strong arms wrap around him from behind, trapping his arms to his sides. In a knee-jerk reaction, he tosses his head back and can hear the distinctive crack of bone. He steps out of the arms and turns to see the Hale alpha. His glare is distinctively irritated from over the hand clutched to his face. Stiles watches as he savagely snaps it back into place with a click. The other wolves have all shown up out of nowhere and fill the living room. The light in his eyes dies back to their normal honey color as he actively tries to channel his breathing back to regular intervals. His seal is wearing off.

"Uh, good morning?"

Isaac peeks around Derek's broad frame with tentatively open body language. Such a pure expression directed at him makes his stomach turn. A sudden commotion makes him snap his head around to see Erica holding an irritated Peter by the tricep. Stiles' eyes burn brightly for a second before he's grabbing the invisible rope that's still tied to the beta and yanking him forward. The man is gritting his teeth with enough force to make a vein pop out in his forehead. Stiles is aware that the rope hurts more for some people than others but can't bring himself to care much.

"Knees." He orders.

With an absurd amount of dignity, Peter lowers himself to wooden floor. He raises a glowing hand-

"Why do this when you aren't obligated to anymore? Your family betrayed you, _Mieczyslaw_." The words burst out of the younger alpha's mouth.

Stiles pauses at his name being utterly _butchered_. Scott's taken position in front of the betas as if to protect them. His face is stern and expectant in a way Stiles finds irritating. He doesn't owe these people a _damn_ thing.

He closes his eyes and raises his hand again,"I follow the laws and regulations of magic more than those of my family. Please save your questions until the end of the presentation, thank you, _Scottie_."

Stiles has never been a big fan of judgments, but he understands their necessity. It's very personal the way he has to delve into someone's mind. He can feel everything they've felt and gone through- to a degree. If he's not careful enough, he can really fuck their minds up, too. He's learned to distance himself and only linger on the important bits, but it still leaves impressions. However, he was totally unprepared for the hell he was met with. The things Anka had told him about the old Hale pack weren't wrong, but "slaughtered" didn't prepare him for the first-hand memories of them being burned alive- of _Peter_ being burned alive. It was a drawn out experience. He could easily see the motive for revenge and the hate that had bubbled under his waxy skin for _years_ before he had the strength to snap. But those things are more pack sanctioned than the offense he's looking for, especially the parricide. Stiles sifts through all the death until he finally sees Kate Argent's throat get slit and a small amount of peace settles on him from Peter's mind, like the resolution to a good book. Then Peter dies.

Stiles is baffled. Virtually no one can pull off coming back from the dead. He sees snip-its of things from Peter's psyche of him pretty much tormenting and brainwashing Lydia Martin. _That's_ where Stiles finds it. Lydia had no idea she was a banshee or had magic and Peter manipulated her. Banshees were an endangered species and had, by far, the most leeway over the dead. But Peter had temporarily tied a piece of himself to her when he bit her. That's how he was able to come back, and _that's_ why he wouldn't be able to sentence him himself like usual. Someone else had to cut the red tape before he could follow through. He draws himself out of the wolf's mind as gently as he can. Unfortunately, he sees the man in a new light.

"I need Miss Martin for a moment."

He looks up to see many unsettled faces among the crowd and Scott holding his arm to his chest.

Stiles feel a tiny smirk tug at his lips,"Hope you didn't try and touch me, McCall."

He doesn't react beyond a scowl. Lydia steps into the room from the kitchen with a venomous glare on her face. Her body is still shaky from recovery, but she walks with her shoulders perfectly squared and her spine straight.

"What." She spits.

He waves a hand to create a temporary silencer around them so only she can hear his next words. It's more than he should be attempting.

"You get to decide whether he lives or dies."

* * *

 

Funem de deo- Latin- The rope of (a) god.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii! Sorry for all the jumps and cut offs in this chapter. I wanted to tie some stuff up so it doesn't keep dragging. I have a very vague idea of the outline for this story but little idea as to how i can tie it together all pretty. 
> 
> Also, I'm gonna add a thing (eventually) that's possibly going to feel really fucking silly, but I've thought about it so much that I can't NOT write it in eventually. It's not a 'wow cool' thing or even a thing that'll make a huge difference. Idk how to explain it, but you guys will know when I add it and probably be like 'lmao that's kinda dumb' or 'dude somebody call wattpad, they're missing one of their writers'. I know though. so it's fine. and i cant be reasoned with. ;) (probably over hyping it. I'm just insecure lmao)

Stiles was ready to pull his hair out. With what he'd seen of what Peter had done to Lydia, he's surprised by how vehemently she had refused to have _anything_ done to him in retaliation for it. _Frankly_ , he was a little offended. Stiles was left floundering in the aftermath, the entire wolf pack looking at him closely in the living-room. For the first time, he felt as if he was intruding. He'd nodded tersely at Lydia before quickly placing his bare palm against Peter's left pectoral and burning a sign into his skin. The room had come alive at that.

Stiles was ripped away from the wolf harshly. Despite his earlier actions, he was in no condition to fight. Just like before, arms bracketed him tightly and restricted his movements. His magic was virtually gone at this point, so he could do nothing to stop it from happening. His head throbbed as his vision blacked out momentarily. Peter was looking from his chest and to Stiles with an unreadable expression- his shirt moved to expose the rapidly healing flesh.

The shiny scar rested starkly against the rest of the unmarked skin.

"What did you do _this_ time? I said I didn't want you to do anything." Lydia said icily.

Stiles leaned back drowsily into the chest of who he _knew_ was Derek,"The people who need to know already do. And the _others_ that may know...are prying Fucks that should mind their own business." He narrowed his eyes towards Peter.

Derek's muscles were tense against his back. The atmosphere of the room continued to build tension until Peter spoke.

"I apologize for my threatening actions towards you, Mieczyslaw."

His eyes flashed knowingly, and Stiles rolled his own in response. _Great, he at least thinks he knows._ He resisted a satisfied sneer.

Low growls sound through the room.

"I'm pretty harmless right now. You can cut this shit out whenever you're all ready."

"We could kill you right now." Lydia didn't phrase it as a question, rather wielded it as a weapon at him.

The arms around him tightened to keep him still. A muscle in his jaw ticks at the pain, and he clenches his teeth. Stiles flexes his hands and presses back into Derek's chest, consciously realizing the advantage of having his back protected.

" _We won't._ "

Stiles ignores Peter,"It's a possible outcome. A lot of things _could_ happen in this given situation. But I don't recommend you try killing me. It wouldn't be good for anybody really."

At this point, his job is pretty much done. Well, if he was still employed then his job _would_ be considered done. But considering he was _terminated_ , the irony isn't lost on him, there wasn't anything else to do. There is a significant difference in his urgency to save himself, compared to other missions.

Scott snorts,"You're bluffing. We've got you backed in a corner: you're majorly injured and out of magic. You can't fight us and win."

Stiles smiled harshly against the haze threatening to intrude on his mind,"Honey, you don't know what backed into a corner _is_. I'd hardly call being held in the arms of a handsome man a disadvantage."

The room seemed to balk until it was cut with a snort from Isaac. Derek shoved him to an arms length away. Scott obviously wasn't wrong, but Stiles was a firm believer in "fake it until you make it".

" _Careful_." Stiles hissed through his teeth. "I'm gravely injured, you know." He said half-teasingly.

He thinks that fluttering his eyelashes at the alpha might have had an adverse effect to his intention: Derek tenses further.

"Alright then." Stiles announces.

Derek's hands slide off him, and Stiles gingerly makes his way across the room.

"What are you doing?" The dark haired girl, Allison, snaps at him.

"About to walk through that front door. Anyone want to point me in the direction of home? Surely you remember where it is from when you busted in the front door like you owned the place- Or kidnapped me from it."

Erica stepped into his path,"You aren't going anywhere."

A large part of him wants to lash out at being told what to do, the familiarity of it being a she-wolf doesn't sit well either, but Stiles is well aware that he's running on fumes. In his peripherals, strawberry blonde hair shifts suddenly. He turns and sees Lydia with her hands clutched tightly at her sides, face pinched.

"Fucking _stop_ , you stupid girl!"

The bout of anger is unexpected as his body snaps around. It makes him flush coldly with nausea, but he still pins her with a stern glare. She looks back undeterred, and it infuriates him. The wolves in the room, he notes, have all moved into the same tentative position to interfere. If the situation were different, he would laugh. However, staring down a banshee tends to silence anyone's untoward tendencies, her being crippled or not. Lydia's jaw tightens, but her body eases of some of it's coiled tension. Stiles watches as her eyes glitter with what he's sure is satisfaction before she turns her back and leaves, into the kitchen.

Stiles can't help but think the room feels more dull once she's out of sight. With that out of the way, the objective of tending to his _urgent wounds_ -

A tan hand clamps down around his bicep like jaws and hauls him towards the door. He manages to keep his feet under him, a fact he's silently grateful for, as Scott pulls him all the way to the top of the steps on the front porch. Until he gets promptly pushed off. It's only a few steps, he's honestly fallen _down_ worse, but his body is unable to stick the landing. A worrying amount of fresh blood spews on his already _disgusting_ pants while he turns over and plants his elbows in the dirt. Looking up at Scott, thoughts of hurting the alpha in varying painful ways burn through his mind before he ceases them sharply. His lip twitches before he spits a bit of blood from his mouth onto the ground beside him.

Only Derek comes to stand on the porch beside the other alpha, the rest of the wolves remaining inside. Slowly but surely, Stiles helps himself into a standing position.

"Never caught the answer to my question." He says a bit breathlessly. "Which way do I follow the road to get to town?"

The way his lungs rattle adds another layer of mild panic over the original.

Scott scowls,"Take a right at the driveway."

Derek gently elbows him,"Left."

It's gruff and honest. Stiles doesn't have trouble deciding who to believe.

* * *

 

Three whole days later and he's back at school. The classes mean close to nothing to him now, so he sleeps through almost all of them. Stiles values his time after school, so he pays full attention in Harris' class. A few people he had become reluctantly acquainted with asked where he was the day before. He'd had a horrible stomach bug since Saturday, of course. Monday was still too soon to come to school. Stiles didn't want anyone to catch what he'd had. The fools were all sympathetic.

In reality, by the time he'd _walked_ all the way home Friday evening, he'd been lightly tapping at Death's door. The minute he got inside, Stiles was activating every protective rune in the house. His head was pounding. Most of his body had gone numb, which was _bad_ , and his chest _ached_. His saving grace had been in the form of his first-aid stash. Though depleted compared to his personal one back home, it provided the few things necessary for him to rehabilitate. However, limited to exclusively using home brewed remedies, it was a long and painful day of forced healing. Unwilling to use all of his brews before he'd made more, he waited another day to heal naturally and another to finish it using his restored magic- which promptly depleted it again.

But 100% _restored_ did not mean back to normal. He was tired- _exhausted_ , more like. Put plainly, his morning stretches would not be leisurely for the next week. His aching body made sure of that. And without the focus that being on a mission provided him, he couldn't bother to keep up _all_ of the act he'd previously had. His mind was mostly occupied by his own efforts of keeping the impending breakdown at bay. The past three days had kept him busy enough so that he didn't think about anything but _healing_. Stiles is sure he's in a prolonged state of shock.

The shrieking of the bell rattles his ears. He can go home.

Or so he'd thought.

After making his way to the parking lot, he's greeted by the achingly familiar sight of a particular gaggle of teenagers by his car. His annoyance is on clear display as he approaches. They all hold themselves with more caution now, he's glad to see. Absently, he scans the formation. Lydia is not among them, but her absence does not hinder their unity. Once, he's within about ten feet of them, his eyes zero in on Boyd leaning on his car.

"Hey! Big Guy, off the car." He shouts while flourishing his hand in the air.

The group turns their attention to him unanimously, but, most importantly, Boyd gets off his car. Stiles is briefly pleased that he normally parks as far from the school as possible. If whatever is about to happen is vaguely like what he thinks it will be, he's glad they have the illusion of privacy.

"What do you Looney Tunes want now? Come to rip me apart some more? If so, I'd say you've chosen a poor spot." He stops a few feet in front of them and crosses his arms.

Scott asserts himself forward, as expected.

"We came to apologize."

Stiles hitches an eyebrow,"Why and what for?"

In public so soon after the end of school, Stiles is mildly confident there won't be any violence to avoid, but he didn't want to see the local pack so soon after healing. Not even having fully settled back in his own skin, it forced the "agent" part of him on edge. And frankly, Stiles is tired and prone to laziness after near death, so it's annoying. Sue him.

Scott roughly shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans,"Sorry that we hurt you a bunch of times since you've been in town and about what Peter did to you. Since we _didn't know what you were doing here_ -"  
  
"I _tried_ to tell you." Stiles cut in sharply, eyes glaring firmly into dark brown.

Scott's jaw flexed,"Can I finish?"

"No. Move."

The group, he noticed- that seemed to be steadily getting closer- now leaned away from him. Their eyes were wide in surprise, only Scott's in outrage.

" _What?_ "

"I said,'No'. For one, You don't need to apologize for the rest of your pack: they haven't done anything to warrant it. I've only been harmed by its two alphas."

Which is something he still finds strange.

"Secondly, Peter Hale has paid his dues as far as I'm concerned. Apology or no, his pack bond is so weak that I don't consider his lapses in judgement viably passed to you."

" _Well, **we** consider_ -"

"And thirdly, I don't _want_ your apologies. They mean close to nothing to me. Your actions speak for themselves. You should learn from this, young alpha."

Stiles thinks he feels his face heat up a little after that. Images flit through his mind and make his back ache.

"You may not _care_ , but we at least want you to know that we regret _certain actions_ that were made."

Jackson stood carefully right behind Scott, who was a mixture of confusion and irritation now.

Stiles drew himself to stand a little taller,"Noted. If you still aren't satisfied with _that_ , you can interrogate me in my home at a later date." Then, after two beats of consideration,"I'm still recovering."

It was over quickly, the other teenagers looking like a weight had been lifted off their shoulders as they swiftly left. Stiles was just glad to be alone finally.

* * *

 

The week cycled by in a blur of monotonous uniform. By the end of it, Stiles was back to normal and..lost. Without the distraction of recuperating, the shock of his situation truly sank in.

He was alone.

Never, truly, had he felt this way. The syndicate was always a place he'd felt close to. Although, where his father was blind, he was not. Stiles was always aware of his grandfather's watchful eyes, and he was careful under them. Naively, he had assumed his loving grandmother would not pass until she was ready- until he was ready. It was an oversight that made his heart ache and his eyes sting. Sitting on the couch in his living room, staring up at the popcorn ceiling in the dark, he felt the emotions he wouldn't let see the light of day surge to the corners of his eyes and bubble over.

He should've seen it, he thought harshly. "A vacation" his dad had said. That memory brought along with it many others. His dad's desk riddled with paperwork. Him hunched under his work lamp. It was a common sight over the years of Stiles growing up. Despite the death of his mother, John put everything into the syndicate for her- for _her_ family. Every time Stiles would see him he'd think of how alone he must feel. This was Stiles' _mom's_ side of the family, and without her there after Stiles was born, he was subtly distanced. But that wasn't the case for Stiles at all. There was a lot of love shared among the family but in equal measure to discipline and professionalism.

That's what he'd thought, at least.

Peter's words rang in his head: " _How strong is your faith in your family, Mieczyslaw?_ "

Stiles thought hard on it. He thought until the burn in his eyes was unbearable and had to close them.

_Faith and love are two separate things._

Quietly, he dragged himself upstairs and went to sleep trying to ignore the deep ache in his chest alongside the gutted feeling that accompanied a grim revelation.

* * *

 

For the majority of Saturday, he pulled himself back together and shoved all his undesirable feelings away for the foreseeable future. He hopped back on his schedule of stretching, coffee, and runes. Flipping through some of his old "storage" works, he's reminded of something he has yet to do. And Stiles doesn't make a habit of lying.

At six o'clock in the evening, he's standing outside of the vet clinic. A limited scan of it shows a cautionary barrier around it and two sparks inside it. Stiles steels himself as he steps away from his car. The bell above the door dings lightly as he enters.

"We're closed!"

Stiles crinkles his brow. Surely if someone were to come in with an injured animal they wouldn't turn them away for coming after hours. His perplexity is gone once Scott McCall rounds the corner and is then replaced with an eyeroll when he freezes on the spot.

"I'm here for the vet and past emissary to the former Hale pack."

"He's not here." Scott snaps.

Stiles is hardly amused. McCall's continued agitation of him is starting to get annoying.

"Are you rea-"

"No, I'm here. How can I help you?"

Stiles veers his eyes sharply at the interruption to scrutinize the man. Despite working with animals all day, his white coat is crisp and clean.  
He ignores Scott completely as he addresses the man,"My name is Stiles, and I need to have a talk with you. Privately."

"I thought your name was M-"

The assassin clears his throat,"Few are allowed to know it, but what's the point when you somehow can't even say it correctly, _Scott_?"

Stiles makes his way past the veterinarian with a belated,"The talk is non-negotiable."

He can hear Scott whispering frustratedly to the vet until the door closes behind him. Once it does, a decently strong barrier springs up around the room. As stiles touches on it, he finds it unlinked to a vulnerable source. This only hardens his resolve and anger. The room is open but for the equipment in the middle of it, and the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol permeates the air. Muffled barks catch his attention, and his heart picks up. He only has a few seconds to be excited over all the animals in the next room before the vet walks calmly through the doors.

A slim smile appears on his face when he notices Stiles peering into the other room,"You can have a look if you want."

He casts a longing look inside before masking his features,"Sorry, that's not what this visit is about. _You're_ in trouble."

His eyebrows raise high,"With whom?"

Stiles stares at him hard,"With me, Doctor. Have you been made aware of the current status of Lydia Martin?"

The quiet amusement on his face evaporates into cool blankness,"I have."

Stiles steps to the center of the room,"Good. Then you know why I'm here?"

He has the _gall_ to tilt his head,"I do not."

A few seconds tick by.

"I was lead to believe you taught Miss Martin everything she knows. Is that right?"

"I've given her resources when she's asked for them." He replies patiently.

Stiles feels cold all over,"Knowledge without instruction. Magic without instruction. You know what that breeds? Ignorance. Mistakes. Death. People _die_. I have a specific problem with your way of _spreading_ _knowledge_."

A spark of irritation flickers across his dark features,"I think I'm a bit more capable than a teenager at knowing what I'm doing."

He grits his teeth and holds out a hand,"Clearly not. Give me your hand."

"Pardon me?"

Stiles snatches one of his hands as a look of indignation crosses the man's face. He drops it just as quickly as a new flare of anger makes its way through him.

He crowds the man close to the counter,"You're a _druid_ , and you let this happen? You protect _balance_ and you let her-! She doesn't know how to _not_ tie her spark to magic when she uses it! She almost killed nearly the entire local werewolf pack with her wail when she got _her spark shattered after I destroyed her rune_. Your irresponsible 'free giving of knowledge' nearly killed a good handful of people! Does that mean nothing to you? With the druidic obsession of balance, you didn't see how maybe she leans a _little_ to hard on _every_ spell? Gives _a lot more than normal_? It's because she doesn't know how not to do anything without it being equivalent to her life depending on it. And it's _not_ her fault. It's _yours_. I'm surprised she isn't drained and dead by now."

Stiles can see the man sweating, figuratively and literally, despite the thick brick wall trying to cover his emotions.

His eyes burn into Stiles',"I still don't know why you're here."

He could've screamed, but instead, his eyes change into burning white light.

"Because it's my _job_." He snarls. "You will fix _yourself_ and then help Miss Martin use magic correctly. I want you to personally make sure that if there is anything she's still tied to, it gets fixed. Or I'll make a second visit that won't be as pleasant as this one. Now _there's_ your stereotypical threat you were waiting for."

The doctor seemed frozen, expressionless face unmoving except for his mouth as he spoke.

"But if Miss Martin's spark has been shattered.."

Stiles reigns himself back in, eyes dimming to show the whiskey brown,"It's been repaired as much as possible with an expected full recovery. She won't be able to train for at least a month or two. So," Stiles smiled devilishly,"In the meantime you can get yourself together. Do some soul searching if you have to. I don't care."

At his slow nod, Stiles stepped back,"I'm done here, then."

He turned on his heel and slipped through the barrier like water. Scott was waiting sullenly behind the counter but was payed no mind as Stiles left through the front door with the chime of a bell.

* * *

 

At precisely one O'clock in the afternoon the following day someone knocks sharply on his front door. Stiles lifts his head from his book with surprise lighting up his chest. He closes the book and sets it down on the kitchen table before clipping his reading glasses to the front of his shirt. Looking through the peephole, he finds a stone-faced banshee and the superior alpha of the local pack waiting stiffly on his porch. Humming lightly in his throat, he turns away from the door and goes back into the kitchen. He takes an obscenely long time taking his book upstairs, going so far as to make sure all of the ones lining his shelf are in alphabetical order. By the time he goes back downstairs in the same leisurely manner, he can practically feel the glares trying to burn through his door. It creaks on its hinges from the new replacement.

"Hello, what can I do for you kids today?"

Lydia's expression is the farthest from friendly as possible, but her voice is even as she politely intones,"You said we could ask you questions at a 'later date'. May we come in?"

"Only the two of you?"

"Yes." Derek answers gruffly.

In no time at all, it feels like, Stiles has seated his guests opposite to him at the kitchen table.

"Okay, let's get this show started. You can stop the cordial act if you want."

Lydia's mask drops into an icy glare seamlessly.

"What did you say to Alan? Moreover, what did you _do_ to him?"

"Uh," Stiles says eloquently,"Who?"

"Alan Deaton. Veterinarian. Past emissary of the Hale pack. Scott McCall's employer." She bullet-points, unimpressed.

"Ah." _So, that was his name._ "I didn't _do_ anything to him in the sense that you're most likely thinking of. I just reminded him of his responsibilities as a druid. His negligence nearly got all of you killed." Stiles gives them a pinched smile. "Ergo, the dangers of being a lazy teacher. You know the saying 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it'? Yeah, I really hate it. I'm a fan of preventing things before they become a problem. It was more the principle of it than it being related to your pack specifically. So don't think I did you any favors."

"How long do you plan on staying in Beacon Hills?"

Derek's question throws him for a second.

"That's..a good question. I'm well aware of my, by now, irritating presence to your pack. But in light of recent..news..I don't have a set destination to return to. Things are a bit up in the air."

Although his voice remained untainted by any incriminating emotions, the small amount of change he can detect in the other two's faces make his skin itch. He was only stating the facts. It burned his throat to say them, but it didn't make them any less true. He _could_ leave. There were many contacts he'd made that would gladly use him in exchange for whatever he wanted. A place to stay. Steady funds. Entertainment. Though, that didn't make it more appealing.

"But I can leave right now if you _formally_ ask me to."

Stiles takes a genuine pleasure in the looks of surprise that spread over their faces in tandem.

"You'll go?" Lydia asks skeptically. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"What if we let you stay?"

Stiles smartly holds back a snort at the implication that they could _force_ him out.

"I guess you could consider me a resource, if that were the case. I'm sure you get your fair share of nonsense here. I'll-"

"How do you know that?"

He rolls his stiff shoulders,"Active nemetons draw attention, and it's not always the good kind. I'm not opposed to helping with that; so if your pack is alright with it and don't object to my being here, I'll help you with whatever is out of your depth. Or we can just leave each other alone. I'm not opposed to either."

Derek is nodding, Lydia asks him to explain why he thinks he can help with anything, in not so many kind words.

"I've encountered a lot of things during my work adventures and schooling. I was _trained_ for what I'm offering. It's my literal job. I'm damn near a professional."

"It _was_ your job." She antagonized. Derek cut his eyes at her in warning.

"It's my _career_ by birth-right. No severing of ties can change that."

"Regardless," She continued. "We can't just accept you at your word alone. We need reassurance that you won't go off the rails at any moment. Insurance that guarantees us and the town safety."

Stiles sighed,"In case I 'turn dark' as I believe your Peter said before? Well, I'm not a spark, so that won't happen."

"What she said still stands. You're powerful. And a threat."

Derek faced his stare head-on. Stiles' stomach fluttered pleasantly as he locked gazes with pretty, light green eyes.

"Alright then." He slapped his hands on the table as he pushed himself to a standing position. His guests jumped at the loud noise and proceeded to get up as well.

"Stand, sit, whatever. I'll be right back."

Leaving his guests to their own devices for a minute, he ventured up the stairs into the guestroom with the odd rune on the window. He'd never gotten around to fooling with it or taking it down. Stiles thought it added a bit of personality to the otherwise impersonal house. The room was barren apart from his travel luggage and a few shopping bags filled with extra school supplies sitting against the wall. He ignored them in favor of opening the closet. A discreet navy blue bag sat in the back left corner, untouched since it'd been put there months ago. He was acutely aware that the alpha downstairs was probably listening to his every move as he picked up the bag and made his way back downstairs.

In the kitchen, Derek and Lydia had switched to the other side of the table. Stiles has a wry smile on his face once he sees them. It's cute that they think body language and power dynamic have any sway on him. He melts into Derek's vacated seat and winks before unceremoniously plopping the bag on the table.

"What is this?" Lydia asks neutrally.

Stiles opens the bag and pulls out the mountain ash infused box it houses. It stands six inches tall, twelve inches long, and six inches wide with a weathered gloss. His visitors narrow their eyes apprehensively.

"In this box is a knife. It's _my_ knife. You guys seen Supernatural? Sam and Dean?" Derek stares blankly, but Lydia rolls her eyes and nods. "Then this would be comparable to me being an angel and _this_ being an angel blade. It's not really as cool as that because I'm not nearly as invincible. I've always thought they leaned a bit on the strength of angels, though. And, seriously, the sexual tension between Cas and De-"

"We aren't here for rambling, _Mieczyslaw_." She snaps.

"Why do all of you have to say my name so _bitingly_? I don't even go by that." Stiles shoved the bag onto the floor and unlatched the box. "Whatever. This can only be wielded by me, a human, or a spark I give permission to. I can also restrict usage. That being said," He places a single finger on the grip of the knife. "I restrict the usage of this artifact from Allison Argent, daughter of Christopher Argent, descendant of the European hunting clan."

"But Allison would be the most viable option to use this." Lydia counters swiftly.

"Your pack doesn't fully trust her, and you're asking me to? Also, there was the _kidnapping_ incident. I'll keep my reservations as they are, thanks."

"How can you tell that? We trust her enough."

Derek's face is stern, and Stiles is struck again by how unfairly attractive he is. Actually, pretty much all of his pack is stupidly attractive.

"My eyes can do more than just look pretty, Alpha Hale. You shouldn't lie to me."

Stiles finds that fluttering his eyelashes at the alpha makes him just as uncomfortable as the first time.

"And _the knife?_ What can _it_ do?" Lydia sounds thoroughly ready to leave.

"If you classify me as a threat or I go off the rails or some rubbish like that, you can use this. Whatever damage done to me with this will heal at the rate of a normal human injury, possibly slower. It repels magic, so nothing can enhance the healing. I've always had my magic so there's no way of telling for sure how my body will take it. The damage from this is absolute for me. _There's_ your insurance."

The knife is deceptively light in his hands as he tosses it around so its handle is held towards the alpha.

"Derek Hale, I give you permission to wield this artifact. I'll _allow_ you to test it now."

The way Derek bristles at his implied superiority is nothing short of adorable.

Lydia watches with rapt attention as Derek takes the knife and slides it across Stiles' offered arm. It's a shallow cut and barely draws any blood to the surface. Stiles huffs at him and snatches it back. Derek's glare is surprised and irritated.

"You're too nice. _Here_." He holds it out to Lydia, who tilts her head questioningly.

"Oh, c'mon. I know you're burning to get back at me for controlling you after you trusted me. While I feel that I can justify my actions, I know it doesn't change anything for you. If I'm permitted to stay, then you can have a swipe anywhere non-vital. I know an apology probably won't matter, especially if I don't mean it."

A thick silence hung in the air as he and Lydia stared each other down. It was taboo to control or tamper with another person's spark. Everyone worth their mountain ash knew that. However, Stiles couldn't regret or apologize for using her to save his own life. It would be easier to atone this way, probably for both of them.

"I'll have to talk with my pack and Scott before we make a decision."

Derek's voice dispersed the building tension between them and they both leaned back into their chairs.

"Yeah, I didn't figure we would come to an agreement today. But just so you know, I only recognize _you_ as leader of your pack."

"Just so _you_ know," Lydia stood from her chair."We don't care."

There was no struggle as Lydia led Derek out and the door slammed behind them.

Stiles blinked a few times in quick succession, staring at the knife laying on the table, before running a hand through his hair and then scrubbing his face.

" _Werewolves_."

He needed a nap. And alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like reading your thoughts so far and junk. I'm always up to clarify anything that may have gotten lost in translation. It's probably gonna take me a while to update again, so I was thinking of adding a second part to this in series form where I can write scenes that take place in the future of this story (non-spoiler type). So, it'd be just like a filler episode. They wouldn't be as long as the normal chapters, though. Maybe just some cute scenes from various footnotes I keep with cute ideas? I was thinking it'd help with all the massive amount of writers block I get. Let me know what you think.  
> -(p.s. school is starting back up for me in a few days and i wanna die)

**Author's Note:**

> Harass me if you please <3


End file.
